


Snowblind

by LogosMinusPity



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, Gen, bitter freljord babes, icesolation, people who don't know how to get past differences and just bang already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sejuani decides to lead one of her spring raiding parties into Avarosan territory, a routine operation quickly devolves into more...a clash that stems far deeper than the simple differences of two tribes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowblind

**Author's Note:**

> A very, very large thank you goes out to [Zerrat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zerrat), who beta'd this story and, without whom, I would never have dreamed of posting this.
> 
> This is my first foray into writing the Freljord champs (namely, Sejuani, who is perhaps my favorite champion in League). 
> 
> Comments, criticism, and feedback are always very welcomed!
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Bristle gave a loud and squealing snort as Sejuani wheeled him around. 

The haze of smoke, the sound of crashing beams, even the screams of what few villagers remained...none of it remotely phased the Warlord of the Winter’s Claw.  Her mind easily filtered out all such extraneous information as she kept a watchful eye on her warriors, her own weapon relaxed and at ease despite the surrounding chaos.

It had become a rarity for Sejuani to lead the Winter’s Claw raids, and the present situation reinforced just why.

She was bored already.

Raid operations were something typically left in the hands of her _stallari_ lieutenants, her raid leaders.  The spring incursions into Avarosan lands gave them ample opportunity to trial both her warriors and her stallari beyond the expected rigors of the battle circle back home.  Those who were strong and smart would undoubtedly show their merit; the others would be weeded out.  That was the way of blooded proving.

Sejuani didn’t needed to prove herself by leading a raid.  She was the _warlord_ , battle proven and scar-decorated.  Raids were hardly a thing of personal challenge for her. So it had indeed been something of a surprise for all when Sejuani had declared that _she_ would be the one leading their premier band of warriors south.

Of course, she acted for a reason.

This spring, it seemed, the “rulers” of Freljord had finally begun to grasp the severity of Sejuani’s threat.  They now realized their flowery words and petty offers of wheat and grain would not placate her.

A grim smile tugged at Sejuani’s facial scar.

Ashe had gravely misjudged, and it was high time both her and her barbarian husband paid the price.

Even if they had begun to answer the depredation of the Winter’s Claw with force.

For the first time, Sejuani’s men and women had begun returning to her with losses; casualties had begun trickling in, new and increasing skirmishes from border patrols of the Avarosan army. 

And here she had begun to think Ashe lacked the backbone for full battle.

Sejuani spat to the side, and her grip on the flail suddenly tightened.

The eager urge for a confrontation still itched in her palms, and Sejuani shifted in her saddle seat, her fidgeting the only sign of her impulse.

What losses they had incurred were regrettable, certainly, but barely concerning; for every casualty, twice as many recruits came to pledge their fealty in her mead hall to the far north.

The strength of the Winter’s Claw was swelling.  Even in the face of the barbarian alliance and assimilation, in the face of a military that was easily twice their size, her people had surged.  More and more Avarosans were abandoning the foolish insignia of the crown and arrow in favor of taking up the emblem of crossed battle axes.  Already, three whole villages only a few leagues north of this one had completely forsworn Ashe and her outlander king.

Sejuani was steadily proving Ashe wrong, and she longed for far more.  She longed for the day the crown would slip from the brow of Avarosa’s Chosen.  She longed for the day when she could toss toward Ashe the bloodied head of the man that she had chosen to warm her bed with.

Today’s raid was still a far cry from that goal.

This particular settlement, deep into the Frost Archer territory, had clearly thought itself beyond the reach of the Winter’s Claw.

Sejuani had been hoping for a better test of her conquest.  They had dared a raid far deeper into Ashe’s sovereign lands than even her own raid leaders had hoped for.  They would be heavy laden with spoils on their return, and barely a few scant weeks into the raiding months.

Even so, she could not help but feel disappointed.  She had hoped for a _challenge_ , for a contest of warriors.

She scoffed loudly, if only to herself and her loyal boar.

What a farce.

These men and women—these w _eaklings_ —their settlements, and their supplies were ripe for the taking.

It was hardly even worth bringing her flail, let alone leading the raid.  If the pathetic excuse for the villager militia had been fearful of her Winter’s Claw warriors, they had panicked in the face of the legendary tribal warlord.  They had taken to the hills at first sight of the broken-horned helm, leaving the villagers to fend for themselves.  Sejuani had let them run, had let all of them run.  Let them carry word to the other villages.  Let the word reach the capital itself.

None were safe from the touch of winter.

Perhaps better tests would come in the future. 

If not...well then, the banner of the twin axes would soon be hung across the whole of the Freljord.

Such thoughts were kept to herself, though, hidden behind the stern veil of her helmeted brow.

There was little else to be accomplished now.  Patience and perseverance would pay off eventually.  Maybe she would have a go against Volibear or Olaf in the battle circle once she returned home.  It had been a while since they had sparred, and surely they were suffering from the same post-winter restlessness as was she.

She was preparing to give the call to her warriors, to turn back toward the north, when a horn-blower sounded from the southern edge of the burning settlement.

Nearly every single head stopped and turned.

“Ho!”  One of her warriors wheeled his horse up, waving. “Approach from the south-east, moving with the wind!” 

Sejuani dug her heels into Bristle’s wiry fur.  He responded with a snort, and in a few seconds, they were bounding toward the edge of the burning village.  The normal raid leader, a capable young woman, was already there on her stallion, gazing out at a dark line on the horizon.

“Sejuani!” The stallari gave a sharp salute—a fist slapped over her chest plate.  She didn’t bother with pleasantries, pointing instead. “We’ve company.”

Sejuani urged Bristle a few more paces in front of both the raid leader and the scout who had sounded alarm.  Nearly the whole of the raiding party had slowed and was crowding at her back, waiting on what words would come next.

They were as eager for battle as her, no doubt.

Sejuani rehefted her flail as she stared at the growing splotch in the distance.  It was closing the grassy plains toward the village, and she knew that very soon the earth would begin to shake for the drumming of hoofbeats.  Her lips pulled upward in a harsh smile, more of a chilling rictus than a grin.  Bristle shuffled beneath her.  He had always been in tune with her moods, and she patted his coarse mohawk reassuringly even as her smile grew.  It seemed the gods of fortune were watching after all.

This...this was going to be fun.

“A contingent of the Avarosan-barbarian army, warlord.  Shall we meet them—”

“Hold,” ordered Sejuani.  Her stallari fell silent in a heartbeat, now keenly attentive.

She scanned the rapidly approaching unit.  A mobile force much like her own, almost entirely on horseback, and far outnumbering her own. There was a waving banner at the forefront, silver on a blue.  The distinctive arrow and crown symbol was to be expected, but the ornate silver trim about the flag was not.  She squinted and frowned at that. 

“Sejuani?”

She shook her head briefly, and then raised two fingers on her hand, a signal for the orders she was about to issue.  

“Hmph...it looks like they’ve brought out their best for us.”

“Shall I send the order for a charge?” Her raid leader was eager, she couldn’t blame the woman.

But Sejuani was no fool.  If the “Freljord army” had been studying Winter’s Claw tactics, so too had she been studying theirs.

“No.  Hold that.  Organize the horsemen and prepare to fall back.”

Murmurs erupted at her back, easily loud enough to be overheard.  There was no need to explain herself, her absolute order, but Sejuani took the time, raising her voice so that all could listen.  All talk died as soon as the first words passed her lips.

“They will have archers in their unit, and weak though they are, the Avarosans are nothing if not a good shot.  And they have horses.”

Those damned short-haired ones, from the Valoran Steppes south of the Freljord.  Even if they weren’t as hardy as true northern breeds, Sejuani knew first hand just how well the beasts maneuvered.

“They _want_ us to come out and meet them, to bring our entire force out and then run circles around us, picking us off one by one with their delicate bows.” Her lips twisted at the thought. “We take our ground here, force them to fight us in the village...”

Her voice trailed off as a plan blossomed in her mind, until the raid leader cautiously cut in.

“Sejuani?”

A cold and clipped laugh escaped her lips. “Call my boar riders to me.”

The raid leader hardly needed to echo the order before the ground shook, riders assembling.

There had been a time once, or so the old stories told, when every son and daughter of the Winter’s Claw had chosen a boar on their coming of age, and not a single warrior had been forced to ride a horse into battle.

It was hard to imagine such a time, when frost boars and scions of Serylda alike were so plentiful as to be considered normal.  Few enough warriors were boar riders in these days, though Sejuani was steadily changing that with each passing season.

In the here and now, eight of her finest were present, and they amassed behind her, ready and waiting.

Though none of the other frost boars could compare to Bristle—but then, there were none in living memory that could—they still overshadowed their equine brethren easily.

It was hardly needed by this point, but she took the time to finish out her orders while the horse riders began to organize themselves in a feinted retreat.

“Run a late maelstrom pattern,” Sejuani instructed. “You’ll know the right time to strike.  We’ll do our half; follow up with yours.”

“Warlord.” Another fist to her chestplate, and then the stallari ducked away, shouting out instructions to the remainder of the raiding party.  Hooves thundered and reformed into a new pattern, already moving for the ridged hills to the north.

Sejuani’s attention remained elsewhere, riveted on a different set of horsemen.

“On my mark, we ride.” She kept her gaze focused forward, even as her boar riders shuffled to either flank. “Listen for my calls once we are in the thick of it, or you will stand alone.  We bring them but a taste of winter, and lure them back.  Let the twin axes of the north fall on them when they are least aware.”

The trampling of horses faded behind her, while a slow rumble built from the south.  The wind was blowing from the west, and the sun was high in a cloudless sky.

Sejuani lifted her flail.  The sharpened head of true ice glittered, unmelting even under the midday warmth.  They were ready.

“Ride.”

Bristle took off into the open field, eight other boars following close behind him.  They picked up speed gradually but surely, until the grass began to blur and the wind whipped at their faces.

“Be ready!” She could practically hear the bowstrings being drawn back.  Her warriors quickly copied her, leaning forward to lay flat against their frost boars, and not a moment too soon.

Whistles filled the air, and a moment later the arrows struck.  They bounced harmlessly off of the thick plate armor on the boars, though, and as Sejuani led the remaining charge, they reached full speed.

Their force rammed into the unit like a strike from the great god of battle himself, bowling man and beast alike out of their way in an aural cacophony of terrified wails.

Bristle grunted loudly as she maneuvered him through the sea of panicked soldiers.  Some were screaming beneath the trampled path of boar and horse alike; some were causing even further chaos in their haste to back away and get space; and some were foolish enough to draw sword and axe and try to stop the devastation that was Sejuani.

She swung her flail about her in hard, controlled patterns, too fast and unpredictable for any of the soldiers to cut through.  Not a pass swept by without the crunch of flesh and bone giving way before the unforgiving force of her skill and wrath.

The carnage brought a wide and happy smile to her face, but she knew better than to tarry too long.  Their initial strike advantage was fading already, and they had a strategy to hold to.

Sure enough, for all the unexpected havoc wrought on them, the Avarosans quickly reformed, falling back into rank.  It was sign enough that their military, whatever dismissals Sejuani gave of them, was improving.  She noted it for future reference.

Yet in the present she gave a lazy, confident grin.  Given how the enemy force was already taking up formation for the chase, they were none the wiser about what was in store for them.

“Let’s give them some good bait, boys!” She yelled it on the wind to her fellow riders, but there was no need.  They had already followed her lead and kicked their boars into a full “retreat”.  No need to falsely slow down—while strong, the Freljord frost boars could not match the innate speed of the Valoran horses on flat ground.  The Avarosan force was gaining, intent on catching them.

As they galloped into the smoking ruins of the village, the enemy was hot on her heels.  Sejuani pulled her reins up short and twisted back around.  With her left hand, she pulled the hollowed poro horn from her saddle, drew a deep breath, and placed it to her lips.

The deep horn signal rang out, and the answering call came but a moment later.  From the northern crest came the charge of the Winter’s Claw. 

They flooded down the hill like a living river, and fell on the burning village and the unsuspecting soldiers of Avarosa in a bloodcurdling chorus of war cries.

One in particular carried through the air, a chant that her warriors rallied around.

“For the Winter’s Wrath!  Sejuani!”

Sejuani swung her flail, more than satisfied.  Now would be the true contest, the one that she had hoped for.

Her battle had begun.

Sejuani directed Bristle fully into the frenzy.

With both sides now in the thick of it, true pandemonium had broken loose.  It was these moments that Sejuani lived for.  The swirling mix of friend and foe alike, life and death dealt out simultaneously and at seeming whim...this was her trial and her throne alike.

She gave a loud whoop as she tore into a solid unit of barbarians, sending bodies flying before her assault.  Her warriors rallied behind her legendary ferocity, but she did not care to wait for their support; she did not need it.  Laughter tickled at the back her throat.  If this was some of the best that her opponents had to offer, then they were even softer than she had predicted. 

Her gut gave a warning tug of danger, and Sejuani brought her left arm up without thinking twice.

No sooner had she moved than an arrow of pure ice shattered against her armguard, sending unnatural waves of cold riding up and through her limb.

She whipped her head around, soldiers and melee all forgotten as she looked for the source of the attack.  There was only one person in the whole of the Freljord who could call arrows of true ice from thin air, summon them to her bow as though—

The world stilled.  For a moment, all that existed were bright blue eyes, more piercing than a blade.  They were as achingly familiar as the very first day Sejuani had connected gazes with them all those years ago, even if the cold edge of anger had long since overshadowed all else for her.

 _Ashe_.

The sound of battle, of death, came roaring back into life abruptly.

“The Queen is mine!”

Bristle leapt into the throng at her urging.  Sejuani screamed, a wordless battle-cry born of some terrible and rising tide within her blood.  Her vision narrowed, her hearing thrummed.  Her flail was an extension of her frenzy, and was hardly enough to match the furor that blistered beneath her skin and within her veins.

She was a force of nature, and none could stand in her path.

The flail was a whirlwind around her, and as she charged down the crowded distance, her eyes were locked unerringly with Ashe’s.

Luck was on Sejuani’s side this day.  Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine that the Queen herself would be leading a counter unit.  There was no chance that she would let the opportunity slip from her grasp.  Now was her moment to prove herself, to show the worth of the true conqueror of the Freljord.  Now was her time to finally show Ashe the truth, and win.

She reached for a bolas from where it was secured in her saddle.

There would be no room for Ashe to even attempt an escape.  Not this time.  Not with the surety and strength that flowed within her. 

The bolas came free, and she brought her arm up, taking aim across what little distance still separated them.

“Sejuani, the Winter’s Wrath!  Come forth!” The words echoed out over the air, cutting through the chaos and penetrating the haze of her rage in a deep and resonant timber. “I, Tryndamere, King of the Freljord, hereby challenge you to the hólmganga!”

All fighting stopped.  Immediately.  Against her better judgement, Sejuani tore her eyes from her target, craning her head back around toward the summons.

Winter’s Claw, Avarosan, barbarians, archers and melee soldiers alike had simultaneously lowered their weapons and turned, now waiting.

A clearing had formed in the center of what was once the village square.  Avarosans and barbarians had dismounted and pushed back, and in the center of the square, towering in his solidarity, stood Tryndamere.

His great sword dripped red, and the bared muscles of his broad chest were taut and corded.  Not a one dared to approach him, and the silence only grew.

Heads began to turn, and an ocean of eyes slowly focused on leader of the Winter’s Claw.

Unable to help herself, Sejuani jerked her gaze toward her original target, but it was too late.  Ashe had disappeared from her perch.

The opportunity was lost.

Her grip on the bolas tightened to the point of pain, and she hissed in anger.  After a long moment, she replaced the throwing weapon back onto the saddle, though not without a measure of enmity.

The thrice-cursed barbarian had just robbed her.  Again.  This time, however, he had prepared his own doom, and Sejuani would happily see him to it in payment.

Soldiers parted to make a path, like reeds before the wind, and Sejuani slowly approached the clearing atop Bristle.

Tryndamere met her eyes with a surprising calm.  He had not moved an inch since calling out, and seemed more than patient to wait.  Sejuani’s anger surged when she realized that he had deliberately pulled her away from her pursuit of Ashe.  Her muscles quaked with the force of clenching them, and she bared her teeth in a cold and feral grin. 

It appeared as though the barbarian had indeed learned a thing or two about their customs since taking Ashe to his bed. 

Well, then Sejuani would teach him a thing or two more.

She dismounted easily before a low and collective gasp, and stepped in front of Bristle’s white and hoary face. A length of chain was twined in one hand, letting her great flail swing menacingly in the air.  When she spoke, her voice was clear and piercing.

“I, Sejuani, Warlord of the Winter’s Claw, hear you Tryndamere, King of Barbarians.  I accept your challenge.  Let us settle this in the circle!”

Loud whoops and roaring cheers erupted, and from both factions.  One of her men quickly came forth to take reverently take Bristle’s reins and lead him back, and from somewhere in the masses, a vast tarp of leather hides was suddenly brought forth to the square.  The skins were quickly unrolled and laid across the clearing.  Then the soldiers and warriors surged in, crowding along the circular border.  Shield after shield was lined up like a makeshift wall, Avarosan right beside Winter’s Claw, men and women equally interspersed.  Their own conflicts were forgotten: they were about to bear witness to a rite as sacred and ancient as the Freljord itself.

The hólmganga was tradition, passed down from times before their people even had a written language, when history had been recorded only in the words of poetry, songs, and ballads.  It was the rite of dispute, no matter how small or how big, to be settled in one on one combat.

Loud whispers were already buzzing among the onlookers, wagers being placed not on the winner, but on how many verses would be spun for the epic sure to come of this titanic clash.

Sejuani’s lips twisted at the talk.

It had been several years since any had dared challenge her to a hólmganga. Through this rite, she had ascended to leading the Winter’s Claw...and it was by the same rite that she had since defended her title as warlord.  While the challenge was not explicitly lethal—a yield _was_ considered equally acceptable—Sejuani had only ever left the hide tarp alone.

She had no intentions to do differently here.  Not with the opponent who faced her.  Not with the theft he had committed twice over from her.

Now that they were both in the circle, Tryndamere bowed his head once.

“Shall we settle on these skins?”

He uttered the traditional opening, and what talk there was immediately quieted.  Sejuani finished the rest, bowing her head back mockingly.

“Let us begin.”

The roar of cheers that erupted around them shook the earth.

The sidelines quickly devolved into alternating cheers and insults from both sides, bold boasts and crude jeers.  Sejuani barely heard them.  Her focus was on her opponent, and only him.

While Sejuani was of considerable size herself, Tryndamere could only be described as a bloody ursine turned human.  He was a veritable giant, and the ease with which he held his greatsword spoke volumes of the underlying strength.

He was also much more of a target for her to hit.

They circled slowly, measuring one another’s steps, weapons, and their very gazes.

It was Sejuani who struck first.

All it took was a flick of her wrist and her flail was swinging, wide and dangerous circles as she fed the glowing blue tip more and more chain length.  Then she began to stride forward calmly, flail circling in a deadly whirl, and eliminating what little space the enclosed ring offered her foe.

On the first pass, he jerked back.

On the second and third, he awkwardly dodged the swinging tip just in time.

On the fourth, he was forced to deflect.

And on the fifth pass, he was not so lucky.

The sharpened edge of head sliced across his shoulder, drawing first blood, much to the delight of the crowd.  When Tryndamere deflected her next pass, Sejuani began changing her patterns.

Another strike made contact, and then another, and slowly Sejuani fell into her pattern of attack.

Cycle after cycle, there was nothing fancy to it now, just varying patterns as she steadily chipped away.  If this was all the “king” had to offer, then she was sorely disappointed.  He was holding his ground, but unable to counter. 

“Is that it, King of the Barbarians?  Is this all you have to offer the Freljord?”

As soon as Tryndamere tried to step forward, Sejuani launched a lethal down strike.  He leapt back to avoid it, but she could feel his frustration mounting.  His muscles tensed and popped out, and his face grew red even as his brow grew dark.

And then he snapped. 

With a bellowed and foreign curse of rage, he launched himself, barrelling down the hides at her.

Sejuani brought her flail whipping around, but Tryndamere threw out his sword sideways, ready. He caught the blow of ice against the length of steel, scattering a host of tiny frost flurries. 

And he continued.

Sejuani quickly swung the flail back while giving herself an extra step.  If the man was fool enough to leave himself open to a killing counter, then she would gladly extract the price from him.

The striking head dented into the side of his helmet with a sound like a jarred bell.

It _should_ have stopped him.  It should have at least slowed him down. 

It did neither.

He was being gripped by a fury, but one that was acutely different from the berserkers of Lokfar.  Sejuani realized it a fraction too late.  She brought left arm back, but the armguard was only able to deflect so that the flat of his blade struck her, rather than the gleaming and sharpened edge.

The blow caught her fully on the left side of her torso, and a terrible, sharp crunch reverberated through her bones.  The accompanying pain was instantaneous, and Sejuani doubled over, nearly crumpling, though she held her tongue from crying out.

She coughed, and blood splattered across the stretched hide flooring.  It was fresh and wet, and coated her mouth with the harsh taste of iron, and reminded her that to hesitate now could mean certain death.

So Sejuani re-angled her flail and jerked back in toward herself, hard.

The chain of it immediately caught around Tryndamere’s ankles, sending him tumbling.  Sejuani closed in and brought her flail careening downward, only to cleave hide as the barbarian rolled aside.  With a speed that belied his frame, Tryndamere ripped upward and dove at her.

In a bare second he was in her space, too close to effectively use her flail, and unseeing wrath in his eyes.

His sword came down in a flash, and Sejuani was forced to jump aside, once, twice.  Each swing of the great blade came a fraction closer landing, and in such close quarters her tactics were limited.  When the blade returned for another pass at her, she twisted her flail.  The head of the weapon was too far out strike, but the chain jumped at her urging and twisted against the broad steel blade. 

His weapon was now useless, too entangled to be effectively used.  Seizing the opportunity before it passed, Sejuani reversed the hold on her flail and slammed her hand upward. 

The butt of her grip smashed into Tryndamere’s bare nose, sending blood spurting out in a fountain. 

He didn’t even falter.

Tryndamere threw his sword aside with a shout, and now it was Sejuani who had to release her weapon or be caught up in it.  The flail jerked from her grasp, skittering across the ground in a tangled mess with the vast stretch of steel blade.

Sejuani didn’t bother to think twice.  She pulled free the small war axe that hung at her belt, and struck.

The curved blade of the axe head sliced exactly where the plates divided along his greaves, and sank easily into the thick muscle of the thigh.

It was a blow that would have felled anyone else.

But Tryndamere...he roared until the veins in his thick neck threatened to break and rupture.

Sejuani pulled back on the axe, wrenching it free.  She brought it back around and up toward his torso with a yell, but the steel never found its target.

One hand engulfed her wrist, and her strike froze, bare and precious inches short from completion. 

The axe trembled for the force Sejuani applied against Tryndamere’s grip.  If she could just finish the blow…

She had forgotten about his other hand.

His right fist disengaged from her guard in an instant.  A roundhouse hook slammed into her ribs not once, but repeatedly.  His hand pounded back into her side without pause until something snapped further beneath the layer of fur and armor.  When the next hit landed, Sejuani dropped with it.  She scrabbled and rolled on the ground, urgently attempting to move before the next attack would come.

“Tryndamere!”

Ashe’s voice rang out over the circle, and to her surprise, Sejuani felt the beast of man actually step back.  Was he _giving_ her space?

Sejuani tried to push herself upright.

This time, she vomited.  What came up was hardly bile, though it still stung her mouth.  Thick, mucous-filled blood splattered across the cold tarp.  It dripped from her nostrils and lips, and before she could hold it back, she vomited a second time, more blood erupting from her stomach and throat.

She spat in a futile attempt to clear her mouth from the taste of iron.

For a horrible moment, her vision blurred and tilted, then she shook her head.  One hand reached up to brush the block of true ice in her shoulder pauldron.  Even through the thick leather of her glove, the seeping coldness was severe and immediate, and it cleared her swirling thoughts.

Finally— _finally_ —Sejuani focused back on her opponent.  She had been kneeling, off-guard the entire time, and yet Tryndamere had not struck.  He was breathing heavily, and much of the furor that had lit his eyes earlier was gone.  Sword back in hand, he was waiting, she realized.  Rather than ending her at the open opportunity, he waiting to see if she would call for the yield and bow her head before him.

He was instead waiting for her to admit defeat.

Rage, so cold that it seemed to burn, flushed away all sensation of pain.  In its place, it left wrath.  Her hands formed fists.

She would never yield.

And she was not yet finished.

With a grunt of effort, she launched up from the mat.

The greatsword was already being brought up and around, but Sejuani was ready for it.  She pulled a bolas from her belt loop and threw it. 

The toss was true, and as it snagged about the hilt of the monstrous weapon, the fragile and weighted end of true ice exploded in a spray of fine shrapnel.  The weapon clattered back to the ground a second time.

Tryndamere swore, his words oddly muffled and warped from his swollen and twisted nose, and then Sejuani was on him.

One gauntlet-covered hand barreled up and into his liver.  The other was caught by a fist.  Sejuani wasn’t about to wait for a counter, though.  Not this close.

She butted her head upward, like a boar tossing its tusks, angling the one unbroken horn of her frost-forged helm.  Tryndamere jerked backward with a grunt.  He was fast enough to avoid impalement on the exposed underside of his jaw, but he could not escape the attack entirely.

The true ice tore a wide and shallow gouge across his unarmored chest.  As he tripped backward with a hiss, blood began pouring freely, further adding to the already slickened red hides.

Not daring to waste another second, Sejuani lowered her head and charged.

He was faster this time.

They met head on, hands grappled and pushing against one another, testing strength against strength like two statues.  Both of them strained at the impasse, unmoving for the effort of holding ground.

And then Tryndamere did the impossible.

It happened in a second, almost too fast for recognition.  He threw the whole of his weight onto his bad leg, and with his last momentum before falling, he struck out with his booted right foot.

There had been no time to react.  The strike was clumsy, weak compared to what it should have been, but it still held the full impact of his grown and impressive weight.  His foot cracked under Sejuani’s guard and into her unprotected side, and then her world exploded into fractals of needle-hot, white light.

Her helmet rolled away on the hides, and the sky spun overhead.

She was on the ground, she realized vaguely, vision swirling from the blinding pain that throbbed in waves throughout her side.

Each shallow breath she sought to take was like drowning.  Her lungs were filling up with red liquid, unable to function.  The harder she tried to pull in air, the more her chest seized and collapsed within the cage of her shattered ribs.

Anyone else would have fallen entirely, would have ended then and there. 

Sejuani refused.

Blood was bubbling up through her lung and choking at the back of her throat, yet she struggled to put her weight back on her feet.  She could not end here.  She _wouldn’t_.

Her weight was placed on one wobbling foot, then the other.  There was a low murmur of gasps, and she did not miss the sharp intake of air from the barbarian king himself.

She stood, precariously. 

And then she fell crashing back down to her knees.  Blood dripped in a steady stream from her face, her arm, her side.

Her spirit still burned with the will to fight, but her body had failed her.

The ring of viewers had gone quiet.  The cheers and jeering alike were replaced with an eerie silence as Tryndamere slowly and painfully reclaimed his sword from the ground.  Not even the faintest whisper could be heard on the wind, only the sound of creaking leathers and iron.  The whole of the world seemed to have stilled.

This was the end.  And everyone knew it.

Forced to her knees, swaying from the delirium of pain and blood loss, unable to draw full breath, Sejuani glared up into the face of her ending.  She jutted her chin out while her clansmen watched, quiet.  She would embrace her death no differently than the great heroes of old.  She would take the blade to her flesh like a lover’s embrace, and die with honor.  She would drink honeyed wine in the Freljord Beyond, and sit alongside the founders themselves.  And her men and women would carry on.

Her ice blue eyes met the barbarian king’s unblinking.  She watched as he waited one more second, listening for the yield that she would never give, and she watched as her steel death was raised for a final time.

“No, wait!  Stop!”

The downward swing stopped before it had barely begun.  In an instant, Tryndamere had straightened.  His sword dropped to his side, point down, and he stepped back, bowing his head.

There was only one person who could command him with such ease—only one woman that he would check his killing blow for, even within the sacred ring of the hólmganga.

Sejuani felt herself falling, her body failing at last. Her cheek pressed into the rough hide, and blood seeped and pooled from her mouth.  Already there were men and women alike running to her aid.

She had eyes for only one though.

Ashe hurried into the battle circle, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken agitation and her forehead creased with deep wrinkles of worry.  The barbarian was already limping at her side—the position Ashe had given him and that he now defended and maintained—but Sejuani couldn’t care less for him.  With each shallow and dying breath, all of her now impotent rage was directed at the woman who controlled him, at the proclaimed Queen of the Freljord.

Even as she succumbed at last to the blackness of Hel, her lips moved in a silent but vicious curse.

 

* * *

 

When her eyes finally and sluggishly opened, Sejuani heard the fragmented words of an old oracle pass through her head, and knew that she had not been granted the honor of death.  Her body ached from countless injuries, both old and new, and a terrible thirst clawed at her throat.  This was no Freljord Beyond, though the feel of smooth and silken sheets against her body could have convinced her otherwise.

The high quality linens—rather than the familiar furs and pelts—already told her enough before she could even begin to look around.

She was not home.  Not in her own warm mead hall, the one founded in the fierce and snow-blasted shadows of the tallest of the Ironspike Mountains.

She was in Avarosan keeping.

The sun was steadfastly peeking out from behind gray clouds, shedding light into the residence.  Sejuani squinted, trying to orient herself.  The bedroom was lushly decorated, with intricate wall tapestries and a collection of golden-stained furniture...nothing like the wood of the hardy dark pines and gnarled oaks that grew in the north.

“You’ve finally awoken then...even if you did seem rather intent on dying.” The voice was curtly familiar, if filled with an unusual undertone of exhaustion and strain.

Ashe was as radiant as the first touch of morning frost.  Her face was pale like fresh snowfall, framed with soft and sensual curves in all the right places, in contrast to where Sejuani was all hard angles and old scars. 

Sejuani blinked.

Ashe rose from where she was sitting off to the side.  She had been reading a scroll of some sort, which was now expertly rolled up and placed aside as she approached the bed.

Purple and white silks, gold trim...she looked every part of a Queen right down to the inconspicuous circlet of precious metal that rested on her brow.

She looked beautiful, and it made Sejuani’s fingers curl and bite into her palms.

“How do you feel?  This is the most lucid you’ve been yet.”

 _That_ implication gave her momentary pause.  And rather than responding, Sejuani shifted, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

The blankets and sheets slid down to her waist, giving her clear view to take stock of her remnant injuries for the first time.

Her torso was heavily bandaged over, as was her shield arm, not that she ever used a shield these days.  Her wrist was either fractured or broken, given the splint in place; she didn’t even recall the moment of injury.  There was a long line of stitches tugging across her ribs, and a whole host of other bumps and bruises littered across flesh and bone.  She felt pathetically weak, which perhaps explained why Ashe seemed to feel no threat being alone with her.

How long had she even been…?

“I…”

Ashe seemed to read her mind before she could even speak.

“You are in Avarosa, and have been for the past three days while my healers have slaved over you day and night, first to bring you back from the brink of death and then to keep you from slipping into a slow-killing fever from your wounds.”

So she was in the main city of the Frost Archer Tribe then, in their very stronghold.

“Because you are doubtlessly wondering, my husband also remains well, though he is nursing his own impressive set of injuries.  You know as well as I do how slow wounds from true ice are to heal...and how they leave lasting marks.”

 _Good_.

The vindictively bitter thought streaked through Sejuani’s head, and she knew without asking that Ashe had seen something of it.

Clearly, though, she was not going to comment.

Sejuani flexed her one good hand, pleased that it still seemed to have retained something of its old strength.  It gave her confidence enough to speak.

“Well, is this it then?  Have you captured me?” Sejuani finally asked, her voice rife with mocking derision. “Healed me up to me keep me in a gilded cage at your beck and call?  To keep my warriors under leash?”

Ashe raised one slender, white eyebrow at the barrage of accusations.  As per usual, though, she seemed all too unaffected by the outburst.

“You are hardly under lock and key, and I doubt even I could manage to keep you as such.  My army...escorted...your men and women back toward the mountain ridge and to their own lands—after having repossessed the goods that they had taken up, of course.  A small contingent of your warriors have been made welcome here as they await your convalescence.  Bristle has even been staying in the stables, and I daresay he has been upset with your absence, though it was good to see that he at least still appears to remember me.”

That traitorous pig. 

He had had probably gotten a warmer welcome from Ashe, too, and that old hurt and jealousy stung unexpectedly.

“I’m not holding you here, Sej.”

Sejuani grunted and looked away at the familiar use of her name, staring holes into the tapestry on the wall.  It took her a long minute of breathing to calm herself enough to respond.

“And to what end.”

She demanded it more than asked.  Ashe did nothing without reason.  What did she want?

“Is this what it takes, Sej?  Is this what has to happen for us to come past swords and spears to be able to address one another?  I had hoped that we might talk for once.”

Sejuani reacted before she could even think otherwise.  The laugh that choked out of her throat was harsh and raspy, contemptuous without even trying.  She wanted to _talk_?

Ashe frowned, but continued on.

“You laugh, but are we truly that different?  Were we ever?  Whatever you may say, Sej, I don’t believe so.  You have given everything to help your tribe, to strengthen them.  Your people have grown strong under you, and prospered.  I have seen it, no differently than I have done with my own tribe.  I have only ever worked to lead my people—to lead the Freljord—to greater prosperity and power.  I know you feel the same.  So what holds us back?”

Ashe stepped in, taking a deep breath.  Her face seemed achingly soft, and her eyes shimmered with the quiet intensity of determination.

“You would even give your life, Sej...but why?  Why do you need to?  Why do we need to do any of this?”

Sejuani started as Ashe reached out with one hand, but pride kept her from pulling away.  Fingers gently pulled back the messy locks of hair that had fallen across Sejuani’s face.  Her hand  lingered though, fingertips softly scraping against the sensitive skin of her scalp.

Sejuani bit down against the wave of goosebumps that prickled at her spine and closed her eyes.  Her angry resolve flickered for a brief second, and her voice escaped as a hoarse whisper. “...because...”

When Ashe’s hand started to ghost over one prominent scar that peeked out from her hairline and toward her cheekbone, Sejuani jerked away, the touch suddenly becoming a brand.

There was a soft smack of skin against skin, and a jolt of pain reverberated down her left arm at having used it to force Ashe’s hand away.

She had moved before even thinking.

“Sej…”

Ashe did not try to reach out to her again, though.

For her part, Sejuani let her nostrils flare out as she exhaled another infuriated breath.  Did Ashe think mere _words_ would solve anything now?  That the leader of the most ferocious tribe in the whole of the north would suddenly agree to bow knee before her and acknowledge the emblem of the arrowed crown as sovereign?

The voice of the ancient oracle reverberated through her mind again.

There was no doubt that the Winter’s Claw would hail her back with open arms.  No one would question her strength.  No one would think of speaking ill of her, let alone challenging her.  She was their leader, and they would not depose her anymore than they would let her think of stepping down.  The hólmganga would be written away, and they would forget it with every successful raid they ran, with each match in the battle circle Sejuani led, with every swing of her flail.

They would forget.  But Sejuani would remember.  And the knowledge would eat at her every time she lifted her weapon, every time she rode against the Frost Archer banner, every time another frightened but hopeful envoy came bearing word from the Queen of the Freljord.

Yes, Sejuani would remember every last waking moment with biting clarity until the day she stood in triumph at Frostguard City, the uncontested victor in the millennia-old War of Three Sisters. 

Could the humiliation be any worse?

She swallowed the sudden burn in the back of her throat, let the fury run like ice in her veins, nevermind that her body was incapable of providing her the means of physical outlet that she so desired.

She couldn’t stand the thought of staying in this city— _in Ashe’s_ _city_ —any longer.

If she truly had leave to go...

Sejuani pushed her palms into the sheets.  Then, she gritted her teeth and rolled out of bed.  The room spun a dizzying circle, but she held herself tall until the double-vision finally dissipated, and the earth was still beneath her.

Without the sheets to cover her, she was practically nude but for her bandages and loincloth.  She had worn even less before fellow tribesmen before, but now she felt stilted and oddly vulnerable.  Almost weak.  Ashe watched her from a mere footpace away, and a sudden shiver ran across her skin, though it was not from cold.

Sejuani shook her head sharply, willing the onset of unease away.

Clearly all of the damned blood loss had yet to replenish itself.

She drew her brow down.  It took only another quick moment to muster as much poise manageable, and she half stomped, half limped toward the far chair where she could recognize a set of neatly folded and washed clothes. 

She could feel Ashe’s eyes, trained on her back as she struggled into the leather breeches.  Sejuani paused at the tunic.  It was a new one, of fresh white linen and missing all of the bloodstains that she knew her original possessed.

Her hands balled into fists around the starchy new fabric, furious at the “ _gift_ ” being bestowed on her.  She wanted nothing more than to turn around and throw it in Ashe’s unfeeling face; she needed charity no more than pity.

The broken ribs at her side jolted with pain when she took too rapid a breath, and Sejuani slowly forced her fingers to unclench. It was surprising that Ashe had yet to say anything, but she didn’t dwell on the why of it.

Instead, the linen was shrugged on over her head.

She breathed in and out once, twice, and then finally turned back around.

Ashe was indeed still watching intently, but what thoughts passed behind her glittering and ghostly eyes were veiled to Sejuani.  As always.

She was abruptly and uncharacteristically self-conscious, as if on display, and that fact that she felt so discomforted only fueled her rising irritation.

What the hell else was she supposed to say?

Sejuani scoffed—at Ashe, at the situation, and mostly at herself for simply _allowing_ any of this to happen. 

“I’m leaving.”

She strode—for she would certainly take pain over even the slightest hint of limping—toward where her her boots lay waiting by the foot of the bed.

“Sej!”

Her feet were practically dumped into the stiff leather, and she was already moving toward the door before Ashe caught up.

“Sej!  Are you mad?  You’ve only just woken.  Your wounds aren’t even—”

“Why did you do it?” She rounded on Ashe abruptly, letting a touch of thunder ring into her words. 

The young leader of the Frost Archers had to stop short to avoid colliding into Sejuani’s chest.  Her delicate brow furrowed as she looked up, obviously confused.  “Why did I…?”

“Why did you stop the hólmganga, Ashe?”

“I was _saving your life_ , Sej!  You would think that—”

“Why did you interfere!?” she yelled, ignoring how her stitches flared in agony.

“Because what good does you throwing away your life in some outdated duel of honor do for you tribe?” argued Ashe, throwing her hands open in her own clear and despairing frustration. “What good does it do anyone?  I...I didn’t want—”

“I never asked you to to save my life!” Sejuani snarled, and Ashe jerked back as if physically struck. “Not then, and not now!”

When there was no immediate and forthcoming reply, she made a loud sound of disgust.  She was done here.  It was time to return to her own home.

“Sej!”

There was something in Ashe’s voice that stopped her, that kept her hand hovering over the door handle rather than pressing down on it.  She begrudgingly turned around.

The Queen of the Freljord was hardly a small woman, and she held herself with the presence of a true ruler.  But Sejuani was a conqueror, and she she lorded every last extra inch of her intimidating frame over the self-proclaimed monarch.

She gritted her teeth, waiting one last time.

It wasn’t the Queen of Freljord and her rival warlord who stared up at her, though.  It wasn’t the fate of a budding nation being argued anymore.  For a moment it was simply Ashe standing across from Sejuani, a bare handsbreadth apart, no different than when they had been children. But Sejuani had long since outgrown her Avarosan counterpart.  Those short-lived days from when they had played games of tag in the market and dared to dream of a future built together were a distant and forgotten memory.

The divide between them now was as wide and deep as the black maw of the Howling Abyss.

“Why...why can’t you understand?” Ashe’s voice was oddly tremulous, filled with rare emotion. “This is for the greater good.  It’s for the Freljord...for everyone.  Isn’t that what we both want?  I don’t understand why—”

This time Sejuani did cut her off. “That’s right.”

She took the time to fix her gaze against Ashe’s, to let all of the fury vent in a frozen glare.    Already she yearned for the biting cold that the mountain wind would bring back in her own lands.  She longed to feel the deep ache in her scars, both new and old, as the northerly air settled into them.

It was easy to lean in, to stare down imperiously and take away all of the poise and aura with which the so-called Queen held herself.  The younger woman—to her credit—did not flinch, but Sejuani pressed into her space, sneering.

“That’s right, Avarosa’s Chosen, you _don’t_ understand.  You sit here in the valley lowlands, cultivating crops and trading with Valoran, but you know nothing of the far north, of the winds from the Gelid Vortex that will strip flesh from bone in minutes.  You know nothing of the warriors who survive in the harshest winters on the face of Runeterra, of the songs they sing during the unending nights, of the traditions that they carry from our forefathers and mothers.”

Ashe’s lips had thinned, and her cheeks were even more pale, if that was possible.  Some emotion flickered in her blue eyes, but Sejuani no longer cared.  The dull ache beneath her sternum had long since been buried beneath a glacial cold.  Her fingers itched to feel the reassuring weight of her flail, to unleash the full fury by which she had earned her title.

Her voice was icy venom as she spoke.

“You call yourself a Queen, but you know nothing of the people who are the heart and soul of this land.  You know nothing of Freljord.  And you know _nothing_ of me.  You think your mercy makes you a leader, that it makes you strong and wise.  It only makes you a fool.  You have made a mistake in showing me pity, and I will swear you will yet see the day that you rue this meet.”


End file.
